This Christmas season I have felt many times like saying "Bah, hum bug," when it comes to my writing journey.
For almost six years I've toiled, trying to better my writing craft with each of my five novels, with the hope of getting them published by the big New York publishers. But alas, I've had six years of almosts, not quites, and maybe next times.
Now, after five months spent in the query trenches (again-huge sigh), I'm bruised, broken and unsure if I will ever reach my dream of being published.
During this month of December, especially, my mood has been bleak as rejections continue to pour in and my already fragile self-esteem seems like it's being held together by disintegrating scotch tape.
So earlier this month I began to pray for a Christmas "miracle", which for me was my perfect-fit agent offering me representation.
On December 19, my wedding anniversary, a writer announced on Query Tracker that she'd been offered representation from four of the agents who'd had or still had my manuscripts, including my "dream" agent. Devastation creeped into my blood, surged through my veins. It was hard for me to be happy for this writer that I'd never met, but to me appeared to swoop in with her first novel and receive multiple offers of rep.
Jealous? Yes, I was, though I didn't want to be. A failure? For a while, I thought I was. One phrase in particular stuck like tacky glue in my mind:
The only people who fail are those that never try.
I felt the deep irony of this phrase. I couldn't help but be bitter, because I'd tried, tried, tried. And I'd failed, failed, failed. Bah, hum bug!
That writer's success seemed to spell my total failure. I was never going to be good enough, I'd never get published the way I wanted to. I should stop trying for something I'd never achieve. Bah, hum bug!
With thoughts like these, I'd turned myself into a Writing Scrouge. And I didn't like it. Gloomy, manic writer is not my preferred hat to wear. After all, I don't write to be published. I don't even write because I'm good at it. I write because I love it. So what if my stuff is never published. That is not, nor ever will be my driving force. No more "Bah, hum bugs" for me.
That's when I stopped praying for the Christmas miracle I'd originally desired, because let's face it, by Dec. 21st, I knew it wasn't going to happen. Instead I began to pray that my heart would be softened and that I would be truly happy for the writer and her success. That I wouldn't let it define me as a failure.
Guess what? My Christmas miracle happened. My heart was softened. The Writing Scrouge shriveled up inside of me. "Bah, hum bug," was replaced with "Joy to the writer." And the world, I should add.
Peace on Earth, good will toward men...
That means all of you writers out there, even if you snag my "dream" agent!
For almost six years I've toiled, trying to better my writing craft with each of my five novels, with the hope of getting them published by the big New York publishers. But alas, I've had six years of almosts, not quites, and maybe next times.
Now, after five months spent in the query trenches (again-huge sigh), I'm bruised, broken and unsure if I will ever reach my dream of being published.
During this month of December, especially, my mood has been bleak as rejections continue to pour in and my already fragile self-esteem seems like it's being held together by disintegrating scotch tape.
So earlier this month I began to pray for a Christmas "miracle", which for me was my perfect-fit agent offering me representation.
On December 19, my wedding anniversary, a writer announced on Query Tracker that she'd been offered representation from four of the agents who'd had or still had my manuscripts, including my "dream" agent. Devastation creeped into my blood, surged through my veins. It was hard for me to be happy for this writer that I'd never met, but to me appeared to swoop in with her first novel and receive multiple offers of rep.
Jealous? Yes, I was, though I didn't want to be. A failure? For a while, I thought I was. One phrase in particular stuck like tacky glue in my mind:
The only people who fail are those that never try.
I felt the deep irony of this phrase. I couldn't help but be bitter, because I'd tried, tried, tried. And I'd failed, failed, failed. Bah, hum bug!
That writer's success seemed to spell my total failure. I was never going to be good enough, I'd never get published the way I wanted to. I should stop trying for something I'd never achieve. Bah, hum bug!
With thoughts like these, I'd turned myself into a Writing Scrouge. And I didn't like it. Gloomy, manic writer is not my preferred hat to wear. After all, I don't write to be published. I don't even write because I'm good at it. I write because I love it. So what if my stuff is never published. That is not, nor ever will be my driving force. No more "Bah, hum bugs" for me.
That's when I stopped praying for the Christmas miracle I'd originally desired, because let's face it, by Dec. 21st, I knew it wasn't going to happen. Instead I began to pray that my heart would be softened and that I would be truly happy for the writer and her success. That I wouldn't let it define me as a failure.
Guess what? My Christmas miracle happened. My heart was softened. The Writing Scrouge shriveled up inside of me. "Bah, hum bug," was replaced with "Joy to the writer." And the world, I should add.
Peace on Earth, good will toward men...
That means all of you writers out there, even if you snag my "dream" agent!
RSS Feed